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Authors: Margo Maguire

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BOOK: The Bride Hunt
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Isabel wondered about the people who had made fires there. How had they reached the place? By the boat that lay there rotting? If she continued searching, would she discover a path that led from the high cliffs to the low ledge?

She moved forward and noticed a tall wooden cross staked into the ground in front of a shadowy opening in the rock wall. In awe, she walked toward the holy place, certain the cross must be a sign from heaven. Surely it would show her their course away from the isolated beach.

With high hopes, she approached the cross and discovered that the narrow opening in the wall was a cave. She turned and looked ’round for signs of anyone who might have con
structed the cross and built the fires…but there were none. Nor were there any signs of a path leading away from the river.

She turned to the cave opening and stepped inside. It grew dark as she walked, but at least it was warmer inside, out of the chilly wind that whipped ’round the escarpment. She kept close to the wall as she walked, but suddenly tripped over something on the ground and lost her balance. She came down hard on the rocks, injuring her blistered hands.

Fighting the tears that welled in her eyes and the despair that threatened to surface, she began to raise herself from the floor of the cave when her eyes, by then accustomed to the dark, rested upon a horrible specter—half bone and half rotted flesh, it had once been a human face.

She screamed.

A
nvrai grabbed his sword and ran toward the sound of Isabel’s voice.

He should have told her to stay close, but it was too late now. As he came upon signs of occupancy, he readied himself for battle, though ’twas almost certainly hopeless. His strength was so severely diminished, he would never be able to rescue Lady Isabel if her attacker mounted a substantial fight.

Isabel flung herself out of the mouth of a cave as Anvrai approached. He caught hold of her arm as she fled and pushed her behind him.

“How many are there?” he demanded, raising the sword and standing firm.

“One,” she croaked. “Only one that I saw. It was horrible!”

Anvrai stood poised for attack, but no one came.

“Was he armed?”

Isabel did not reply. Anvrai turned to look at her, noting tears in her eyes and a quivering chin. “H-he’s d-dead,” she stammered.

Anvrai lowered his sword arm. “You killed anoth—?”

Before he could brace himself, Isabel threw herself into his arms and began to weep. “I was s-so frightened!”

She pressed her face against his chest. Without thinking, Anvrai slid one arm ’round her shoulders. She felt soft and vulnerable, and he felt entirely inadequate. He’d done very little for the lady…hadn’t rescued her at Kettwyck or saved her from the dark-bearded Scot. And now this.

“I don’t know how long he’s been dead,” she said with a shudder. “Not long…his flesh is still…”

“You didn’t kill him?”

“Kill—? No. His body was lying there. I f-fell over him.”

“Wait here for me.” He set her aside and stepped into the cave, then waited for his vision to adapt to the darkness.

’Twas not long before he saw the body. He went down on one knee and looked closer, determining that the corpse had once been a man—a holy man, judging by the cross that hung ’round his neck on a thin leather thong. Anvrai raised his head and looked into the cave, where he saw the shadowy remains of the man’s belongings.

He stepped outside. Isabel stood with her back to him, shivering in the cold, her body dwarfed by his long tunic. Her legs were bare below the knee, and she’d wrapped her foot in a strip of cloth torn from her chemise.

The sight of her tender, desolate form touched him in an unwelcome manner. He had left all softness behind with the violent deaths of his family. He was not about to join the ranks of her mush-hearted suitors.

“Lady Isabel, go back to Sir Roger. Stay with him until I come for you.”

She gave a quick nod and left the area, leaving Anvrai alone to deal with the dead man.

It did not take long. Anvrai found torches and flint inside the cave, and he soon had light. There were tools, cooking utensils, and furs for warmth. He took the man’s clothes, rolled him onto one of the furs and pulled him out of the cave, then down the beach. There was no place to bury him, so he lifted the body into the old
boat, then launched it on the river where the current carried it out of sight.

Anvrai went back to the place where he’d left Roger and found Isabel sitting next to him, tending a wound in her foot. Crouching beside her, he took her foot in hand. He had an extensive collection of healing herbs and ointments in a special satchel that he kept in his quarters at Belmere, but that would do her no good at present. He would have to see if there were any medicinal plants nearby, something useful that might still be growing so late in the season.

Releasing her, he lifted Roger onto his shoulder once again. “Come on. The cave is empty now,” he said as he stood, “and we can use it for shelter until Roger is able to travel.”

Isabel came along quietly, but when they reached the tall cross with the cave entrance right behind it, she faltered.

Anvrai sensed her nervousness, but there was no kindness in him. When he replied, ’twas only to convince her to go inside. They both needed to rest, and the cave was the best place to do so. “The body is gone,” he said.

Isabel nodded. “I saw you,” she whispered.

Anvrai walked past her, carrying Roger into the cave. He lowered the young man onto the hermit’s pallet and covered him with one of the furs, then took the dead man’s cooking pot and
carried it outside. There were things that had to be done before he could rest, before he made the mistake of trying to comfort the comely dark-haired lady who stood at the edge of the cave in such distress. Beautiful, highborn ladies abhorred his company, much less his touch. He would foist neither upon Lady Isabel.

He returned to their stolen currach and retrieved their few belongings, hanging the wet skins over the branches of nearby shrubs. Then he filled the hermit’s pot with fresh water and carried it, along with the rolled-up skin Isabel had taken from the chieftain’s hut, to the cave.

She was inside now, sitting close to Roger, her legs tucked under her, and her arms wrapped ’round herself. In the flickering light of the torches he’d lit earlier, her skin looked pale and taut over the fine bones of her face. The bruises and split lip seemed to magnify her delicate beauty
and
the differences between them.

He tossed her one of the skins. “This will warm you.”

He set the water down and picked up one of the torches. The inside fireplace was no more than a circle of heavy rocks, but there was soot on the wall, and Anvrai could see a narrow line of light in the cave’s ceiling. Clearly, there was adequate ventilation.

’Twas only a matter of time before Anvrai
had a fire going and was sitting on the cool rock floor across from Isabel and Roger. He felt hungry, but he would have to hunt before they could eat, and that posed additional problems. Before all else, he would be content with a few hours’ uninterrupted sleep.

His eyes drifted closed, but when Lady Isabel came and crouched before him, he mustered what small amount of energy he possessed and looked at her. In her hands was one of the rolled-up skins he’d brought in from the currach. As she carefully unwrapped it, the smell of food hit Anvrai’s nose all at once. He did not know what she held, but it was edible.

Isabel broke off a small piece of bread, which she kept, and held the rest out to him. She looked back toward Roger and the rest of the items that lay within the skin. “There are a few apples, too.”

He took what she offered and tasted the coarse bread.

“’Twas on the chieftain’s table,” she said. “I took all I could carry.”

He reached for the water, as much to wash down the dry bread as to reexamine his earlier impressions of Lady Isabel. Mayhap she was not the brainless imp he’d first thought. In a difficult situation, she’d not only killed the
chieftain, she’d thought ahead and planned for their escape. ’Twas more than many inexperienced knights would have done.

Lady Isabel took her part of the loaf and returned to Sir Roger’s side. Having a bit of food changed everything. Anvrai felt better than he had all day and decided to go and explore while there was still daylight. ’Twas a better pastime than watching Isabel fawn over her fallen knight.

“See if Roger will awaken enough to take sips of water,” he said, before stepping out of the cave.

Judging by the condition of the boat and the home the hermit had made for himself inside the cave, the man must have lived on this edge of land for some time. Years, perhaps. Anvrai assumed there would be a path to the top of the escarpment, but he found none. There was no way up, and the ledge ended abruptly some distance from the cave, where the river cascaded down a steep ravine. ’Twas there that the river formed a waterfall.

Puzzled, Anvrai returned to the cave, determined to understand how the hermit had survived in this location. Isabel was ministering to Roger, speaking softly to him, lifting the young man’s head, placing a cup of water to his lips.

Neither the sight of her soft hands smoothing Roger’s hair nor the sound of her quiet voice should have inflamed his blood as it did. He picked up a torch and walked to the farthest reaches of the cave, before he followed the primitive impulses demanding that he lay her on her back, spread her open, and plunge into her.

If he did such a thing, he would be no better than the Scots who’d abducted her, no more honorable than the barbarians who’d raped and killed his mother and sister.

Putting her from his mind, he saw that the stone abode was larger than he’d first thought, with two chambers that were almost invisible because of their low ceilings. Anvrai knelt and held the torch at the first of the openings and saw that it served to hold a cache of tools and supplies.

The next opening was a passageway, and Anvrai crawled into it. Once inside, he was able to stand, but only if he bent at the waist. He walked about twenty paces to the end, and discovered a large rock jammed into what appeared to be an aperture.

Anvrai put the torch behind him and lowered his uninjured shoulder to the rock. He shoved, putting the strength of his legs behind it, and pushed the rock out of place.

 

Though Isabel was finally warm enough with the fire Sir Anvrai had set, she felt closed in and apprehensive inside the cave. She knew naught of tending the ill, for it had not been one of her functions at the abbey.

“Swallow a bit more, Roger,” she said, tipping the bowl to the knight’s lips. ’Twas hard to believe this was the same young man who’d seemed such a fine choice for her spouse. His lips were dry and cracked, and he smelled every bit as bad as Sir Anvrai. His wispy beard grew thicker ’round his mouth and thin on his cheeks, but it was quite matted and filthy.

She had to go back to the abbey. After this ordeal, surely her father would allow her to forgo marriage and return to Rouen to take her vows. Her place could not possibly be in the world, with men and their brutal ways.

Roger sputtered and choked, but roused himself enough to swallow some of the water. Certainly, if he continued to drink, he would need to relieve himself, and Isabel had no intention of dealing with any of that. Her decision to stay with Roger at any cost was wavering, and she hoped Sir Anvrai would remain with her until Roger was able to travel.

Why had her father insisted that she and
Kathryn come to him at Kettwyck? Had he not known how dangerous it was? Her thoughts dwelled upon her sister and parents, and what might have become of them in the raid. Had her parents survived the attack? Had Kathryn been taken, too?

Kathryn had been ecstatic to leave the abbey. She was anxious to wed and had spoken frequently of her yearnings for more out of life, for a husband’s love, for motherhood.

“There is a way out.”

Sir Anvrai’s words startled Isabel and distracted her from her despairing ruminations. She swallowed back the tears that burned her throat. “How? Where?”

Her gaze moved between the two men. She did not know which one most threatened her peace of mind. Anvrai’s powerful torso remained bare, and though he seemed impervious to the cold, she wished he would take the fur pelt he held and cover his brawny shoulders. Surely ’twas not too much to ask.

“I’ll show you.”

Resigned to following the half-naked knight, she left her place near the fire and hobbled after him. First he showed her a cache of filthy fur pelts like the one he held.

“Some of this will be useful.”

Isabel doubted it until Anvrai pushed the
furs aside and she saw various tools lying alongside a knife and bowl.

“These are snares,” he said, taking out several long loops of leather.

His hands were large and strong, and the sight of them sent a shiver of longing up Isabel’s spine. He was a brute of a man, but she found herself wondering how ’twould feel to be touched by those big hands, to be caressed by one so potent, and she could not help but compare him to poor Roger, who lay at the opposite end of the cave, sorely wounded.

’Twas puzzling. Anvrai’s injuries should have been incapacitating, yet he did not succumb. He’d strained beyond all expectations to get them away from the Scottish village, taking care of her as well as Roger, in his own gruff way.

“I can set the snares and catch a hare or two. Mayhap a partridge.”

His voice rumbled through her in a way Roger’s never had, and Isabel felt a surge of heat that seemed to melt her bones.

Feeling weak-kneed with odd sensations coursing through her, Isabel gave Anvrai a dubious nod and followed him to a tunnel carved into the rock. She had to duck as she entered, but went along behind him, following the flickering torchlight until she came to the daylight at the end and stepped out beside Anvrai.

The cliff might be broad, but that was no help. Isabel’s stomach dropped to her toes and she felt dizzy. She backed up against the wall of the cave and closed her eyes against the sight of the narrow valley far below her. Shivering, Isabel hugged herself as the wind penetrated her inadequate attire and nausea roiled in her belly.

She opened her eyes a crack and knew she would never be able to make her way down to that dale even if she had shoes and clothes to keep her warm. She’d always had trouble with heights, even looking out of high windows.

And Roger…How long before he would be able to stand, walk, climb?

Anvrai took her by surprise when he walked to the edge. Stricken with alarm by his move, she turned to go back into the tunnel, but he stopped her. “Come and look.”

She shook her head. “I cannot.”

“’Tis not as high as it seems.”

“High enough, Sir Knight.” The fearful quivering of her voice vexed her, but she would not look over the precipice. ’Twould only make the fluttering in her stomach worse.

Anvrai made a rude sound, stepped down, and quickly dropped out of sight.

 

Anvrai lowered himself to the path and let the wind cool his heated blood. Isabel had
looked powerfully female, quavering at the prospect of scaling this cliff, and it made him want to pick her up and carry her safely to the dale.

’Twas absurd. The path was perfectly safe and the distance to the dale not far. Yet he’d known men who could not abide the view down from great heights—archers who could not man a parapet because of the dizziness such a height caused. There was no doubt in Anvrai’s mind that Isabel suffered the same malady.

BOOK: The Bride Hunt
5.29Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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